


a traffic report

by mutantish



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutantish/pseuds/mutantish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The radio buzzes and bleeps, interruptive and intrusive, and you’ve never wanted to punch it in more in your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a traffic report

**Author's Note:**

> for katy. because i love them and they said "i'm excited to be emotionally wrecked" and this was inspired by a tweet they made.
> 
> (bear in mind that i have not read the comics yet)

Jet and Kobra are out raiding the abandoned block off the main track, so for most of today it’s just you and Poison, and for the first time in a long time, it’s nice. It’s the first time you’ve separated since the BL/Ind scare three months ago (disaster, more like, none of you still have no idea where Grace is or if she’s even alive. But you’re working on it).

You’re re-labelling cans of what’s probably beans or something else just as rare, as cans of Power Pup, ready for resale at the Zonerunner underground market. It was Jet Star’s idea, to start some kind of business with it, so when Dracs do raids, they ignore the cans of Power Pup, rather than swiping them for being non-regulation. Every Drac assumes it belongs to another when they’re labelled, and none of them are bright enough to realise otherwise. It’s genius, really. Party Poison draws a label with some shitty watered down paint onto lining paper you’ve torn off walls, and you wrap it around the can, using a really pour flour and water concoction as some half-ass glue.

Not before long, he gets a smudge of black ink on his nose and you laugh, because he looks like a dork, scrunching it up to try and see it, trying (and failing, epically) not to join in with your laughter. You reach over the counter towards him, wetting your thumb in your mouth before brushing it against his nose. “Come here, you menace,” you laugh again as he tries to pull away, hand going to touch where his nose is now wet, “I’m trying to help you!”

He rolls his eyes and leans forwards to let you rub away at the line of ink on his nose. It comes off with little work and minimum effort, and soon you find yourself just _looking_ at him, thumb resting against the tip of his nose, and he just looks back, hair falling down and framing his face (it still looks like it hasn’t been washed in four years) in some sort of weird red halo.

You smile. He smiles back. For a moment, in this split-second here, things aren’t so bleak; you’re not in a rundown shack in the middle of nowhere, you’re not fighting for your survival in a world you all secretly know will crush you into the sand; you’re peaceful. You lean over the counter more, press a kiss to the tip of his nose, and his smile grows wider.

The radio buzzes and bleeps, interruptive and intrusive, and you’ve never wanted to punch it in more in your life.

 

**“Bad news from the zones, tumbleweeds,”**

 

Poison’s head shoots up, eyes snapping to the radio on the opposite wall. You freeze. Bad newscasts are always like this; fear for the people you love’s safety increases tenfold in seconds. You can feel your heart thrumming in your chest. You’re nervous. Nothing ever changes.

 

**It looks like Jet-Star and the Kobra Kid had a clap with an Exterminator, that went all Costa Rica, and uh, got themselves ghosted,”**

 

“No,” Party Poison’s voice is soft, but it’s coated, slick with disbelief. If it could, your heart would’ve stopped, it's in your mouth. Your mind races, all your thoughts colliding like atoms in a reaction, the activation energy lowered. Dr D’s voice is the catalyst. You have to get yourself together, act fast, now or never. Now or never, this is not your call anymore; you have no choice in what –

 

 **“..Dusted out on Route Guano**. **So it's time to hit the red line and up-thrust the volume out there,”**

 

“No,” the denial is louder this time, repeating, “No, no, Mikey –“.  He’s getting up from his seat, eyes wide and disbelieving. You’ve lost two people. Dr D’s broadcasts are nothing if not truthful. Poison’s mind has gone straight to his brother, and it’s understandable, but you don’t want to be there when it goes to Jet.

But you know you will be anyways.

 

**“Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close, and die with your mask on if you've got to. Here is the traffic.”**

 

The broadcast finishes and you can actually feel shock starting to set in. The radio fizzles out again.

There’s a plan you have, and this is deviating from it. This is not part of the plan; this is not supposed to happen. You drop the unlabeled can of Power Pup, catching Poison in your arms as he tries to make a break for it, tries to make a run for the door. You wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly, and try to shut out his cries, try not to listen as he screams out for his brother and his brother’s best friend. You know if you let go, he will go looking. You’re not far from Route Guano as it is, and he knows that too. He knows how close it is. How close they were.

The radio plays on again in the background as you grapple with him. You catch a word or two, but all your focus is on stopping Poison going out that door and into the dust. You’re shorter than he is, but you have strength where he does not, the months you spent handling the heavy equipment coming into play.

“No!” He jumps at how loud your voice is. “I’m not losing you as well, not now!” 

You’re not sure if you mean to shout it, but you’re instantly filled with dread the moment the words leave your lips, because that’s really not what he needs to hear right now. He needs to be comforted by you, not apologetic for mourning. You go to say sorry, to let him know its all okay, but you don’t get the chance, because he stops fighting you, and now you’re not so sure what’s worse. Him wrestling to get out of your grip, or him sliding from your arms to the floor, body shaking and convulsing with silent tears. Fuck, you think, and fall to your knees. He doesn’t look you in the eyes, red hair falling down over his face.

You’ve never seen him like this before. You’ve all lost family and friends throughout the years, people have come and people have gone. Zoid had gone. Tour Crush left. Mr Benzedrine and his entire clan came and went. But not like this. Never like this. The oh-so-strong and fearless leader is breaking down in front of you, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. This is the first time you’ve ever seen Poison cry, and you just have to let it happen.

You know what will happen tonight. When you’re exhausted to the bone, the loss will settle in, and he’ll crawl into your room, and you’ll cling to him. You’ll both mourn together, loud unapologetic sobs filling the air. But right now, here in this moment, you have to be strong for him, because you’re all he has left now.

You bring your hands to his shoulders and pull him into your arms, and he comes willingly. He cries into your t-shirt, because, fuck, this was not supposed to happen. None of you had planned for this. You never did, because not coming home wasn’t an option. It wasn’t an option, and somehow, it’s the one Kobra and Jet appear to have taken.

 

**_Fuck, hold it together, Ghoul. Hold yourself together._ **

****

It’s dark before you realise it. You’d lost track of time, sitting on the cold, hard floor, Party Poison cradled in your arms. He stopped crying a while ago, but neither of you had made any effort to move. There was no point. You probably spent the last few hours looking ridiculous, but what did it matter? You’ll have to move on before dawn, because if the Dracs are close enough to dust people on Route Guano, they’re close enough to raid your den. You figure you’ll get four hours sleep maximum tonight.

Poison shifts against you and your attention flits to him instantly.

“You okay?” You murmur against the top of his head, and you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t give you an answer, just pulls away and clambers to his feet. You follow, dusting off your hands on your legs as you get up, pulling your shirt straight. There’s still a damp patch under where your collarbone is.

“I’m,” his voice cracks, “gonna go – take a shower. Up in a few hours.” You nod at him, and he shuffles out of the room, staring at his feet as he walks away. You take a deep breath in and head to your room. It’s going to be a very long night.

You get into bed, and as expected, he comes in half hour later, hair dripping and shirt clinging to his back where his skin is still wet. He climbs onto the bed next to you, and you shuffle around until your head is above his chest, your legs tangled together. This is how you sleep now, have done for a long time; will do for as long as you can get away with. This way you can hear the beat of his heart, can hear the _thump thump thump_ against his ribcage. It’s grounding for you – it’s easier to fall asleep with someone with you.

You sigh against him, and it comes out as half-sob, choked.

And it’s there that you crack, you break, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt as you cling on for dear life, and he clings back, leaning down to press his face to the top of your head. You can feel the heave of his chest as he cries silently, and you know that he knows you are too, because his arms tighten around you, holding you to him. You’ve both lost two people today, two of the best people you’ve ever known, and it hits you harder than you thought it would.

You struggle for air, and for a moment, it feels like the walls are closing in on you. You try to concentrate on not having a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and focus on the body underneath yours, the hands around your waist. It helps, and he lets you cry it out in silence.

The rest of the night is spent sleeplessly, in contemplative silence. His thumb traces circles against your hip. You realise, in the midst of the first light of the sun, that this is it, isn’t it? It’s it. It’s just you two left now; you’re all that’s left of the Fabulous Killjoys. You’re dependent on each other, more so now than ever before. And you’re fighting a losing battle and the world is going swallow you whole if you look the wrong way.

Party Poison makes the same decision around the same time you do, because he whispers into your hair, “for Jet and Kobra?”

“For Jet and Kobra,” is your reply, “and everyone else.” Your voice wavers, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. His arms just tighten around you again, nodding in agreement to go all out, with everything you’ve got, everything you’ve ever been, ever could be and ever will be. For Jet and Kobra, for Show Pony, for Dr. D, for Grace and Zoid, and for all the people you’ve lost along the way, all the people who were caught in the stream and pulled into the undercurrent that is BL/Ind.

For yourselves, and everything you should’ve been.

“Die with our masks on if we’ve got to.”


End file.
